A voice in my head dubs me a failure once again. Is it my own voice? It is too distant to tell. I put the single frame back in its envelope. I am awash with self-loathing. This failure to predict the frame on each side, the other moments, the quantized presentation of Ingo’s world, has led me to the undeniable conclusion that the only moment that exists is the moment we inhabit. The rest is rumor and gossip. The rest is a lie.